


One Cool Dude

by IsolatedPhenomenon



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, John Plays the Piano, Music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsolatedPhenomenon/pseuds/IsolatedPhenomenon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 12:04 in the morning, and John just wants to play the piano in the hotel lobby. Dave just wants to punch him in the face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Cool Dude

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully, this will get me out of the writer's block I've been having. This is my first Homestuck fic, so feedback is welcome! I also can't decide if I want to continue this or leave it as a oneshot, so let me know!

It’s definitely not the nicest hotel you’ve ever stayed at, but it does have a piano. How many hotels actually have a decent - if slightly out of tune - upright piano standing in their lobby with nobody to play it? Right now, you could use a little relaxation, so you head over to the check in. The sooner you dump your belongings in a room, the sooner you can sit down and just _play_.

“John Egbert, one room for the night, please,” you say absentmindedly as you hand over your credit card. The man on the other side of the counter pecks away at his computer keyboard, and you shift your bag over your shoulder. Barely paying attention to him, you turn to leave after he rattles off the price and rules and hands you the key. You stop, remembering your manners. Your dad would've killed you if you barged in somewhere and messed with the piano without asking first.

With an easy smile despite the late hour, you turn back to the man. “Say, would you mind if I played your piano?”

He shrugs at you and coughs into his hand, breath rattling. “I don’t really care what people do as long as I don’t need to clean up their messes.”

You take that as a yes.

Quickly, you make your way to your first floor room and toss the bag onto the small bed. In no time, you’re back in the lobby, almost sprinting to the piano bench. Before you start, you roll your shoulders and pull off your sweatshirt. You hate playing with anything around your arms, and the light t-shirt you had on underneath is much more comfortable. Carefully, you adjust your glasses and the bench, attempting to find the perfect position at the unfamiliar instrument. After what seems like years of preparation, you finally begin to play.

By “play,” you mean warm up.

Scales are terrible things that deserve to die. Arpeggios are worse. Your hands fumble a little, and you’re glad it’s nearly midnight and there’s no one else in the lobby. There’s probably no one else in the entire hotel.

Before long, you get back into the well-known rhythm of sweeping motions and twitching fingers and finally, _finally_ , the last few weeks fade away and all you feel is the music, wrapping around you like a warm blanket and keeping you safe.

By the time you finish warming up, you can sense a grin dancing across your face. You desperately want to play cheerful Christmas music that would ring out and fill the room with tinkling chords, but it’s too quiet and lonesome for that. Instead, you decide to play Beethoven.

Beethoven was one cool dude.

His music is so angry and remorseful and perfect for letting out your feelings, so you let the heartbreaking minor chords ring out for longer than they’re supposed to. You fill the room with tinkling chords like you wanted, but not in the joyful, Christmas way. Instead, passionate bursts of dissonant notes scream, then apologize. It feels so amazing, so _right_ , that you never want to stop. 

* * *

  “Who the fuck is playing the piano at one in the morning?” you grumble, shoving your head under the pillow. It’s bad enough the walls are so thin you can hear the couple next door loudly having sex. Now you have to listen to whoever decided the middle of the night was the perfect time to practice? No. You’re done with this bullshit. Completely done.

With a groan, you roll out of bed and flop onto the floor. If the person in the room below you wasn’t already awake, they definitely are now. Still rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you check your phone.

12:04 in the morning.

“I am seriously beating this kid up,” you mumble to yourself sleepily. You toss your phone onto your bed and pick up your pair of sunglasses from the nightstand. For a while, you debate over whether or not to bring your sword, but you decide in the end it isn’t worth it. Too much effort. You’ll just punch the piano player in the nose or something.

You feel like the poster boy for insomnia, shuffling down the stairs while raking fingers through your messy blond hair. Somehow, you manage to get your lazy ass into the lobby, and you’re about to yell at whoever is making that stupid noise when you stop short, mouth still open with the ghost of a yawn.

From your place off to the side, you can see the kid, but he doesn’t see you. And when you say kid, you mean kid. He can’t be that much older than you, only eighteen or nineteen at the most, and his fingers are moving so fast you can barely see them. You can also barely see his eyes beneath glasses and messy black hair, although you really want to see what they look like. From the way his grin takes up the whole bottom half of his face, you can bet his eyes are laughing silently.

For the first time, you stop and actually listen to the music.

It’s definitely a classical piece, but you don’t recognize the tune. That doesn’t surprise you; you’re not really one for classical music. You can make an exception for this song, though. Or for this guy.

You take another breath and discover that your mouth is still open. Hurriedly, you shut it, even though no one is around to see you break your famous Strider façade. The click of your teeth breaks you out of your trance and you decide to walk up to the guy once he’s finished.

There’s a lull in the music and you head over to him, but as soon as you start walking, he begins playing again. By now, you’re already halfway there and there’s no turning back, so you walk up to the stranger and tap his shoulder.

He immediately jerks, fingers jolting and slipping on the keys. Oddly enough, it still fits with the piece. Startled, he turns around and backs up against the keyboard.

Fuck, why didn’t you plan out what to say before you walked over?

“Hey,” you manage to blurt out. You try to act casual and put your hands in your pockets when you remember that your pajamas don’t have pockets. The other guy follows your movement with his eyes, and only then does he seem to notice what you have on.

He seems much less terrified of you now and looks you straight in the eye. “Are you wearing fruit-themed footie pajamas?”

“Of course,” you respond smoothly, crossing your arms over your chest. “Haven’t you ever heard of irony?”

“I don’t think that’s the way irony works,” he counters, and he’s grinning and you can see his eyes up close and shit, you were right. He’s definitely one of those people who can smile using only their eyes.

You're staring. Before the silence stretches too far, you declare, “That’s the irony of it.”

He lets out a sudden burst of laughter at that, and without even knowing this boy’s name, you know you want to hear that laugh again. So, you smirk and sit yourself down on the bench, scooting next to him. “You know, I was going to come down here and kick your ass for keeping me awake.”

“And?” He’s still grinning. He can tell that you’re not serious, and that’s more than can be said for most strangers.

You shrug, and he chuckles, asking, "Do you know how to play the piano?"

With a dramatic flourish, you bring your hands to the piano and play the one song you know: "Chopsticks".

You expect him to laugh at you. You were hoping for it, actually. You weren't kidding when you said you wanted to hear him laugh again. Instead, before you can get out two notes, he plays along with chords and fancy notes and actual  _music._ "Chopsticks" has never sounded this good, at least not when played by you. Sneaking a look at him from under your shades, you start to play faster and harder, stabbing the keys with your fingers. You don't mess up - Striders don't make mistakes. Maybe you press a different key every now and then, but that was totally on purpose. Yup, totally.

Soon, you're going too fast for the guy to play his elaborate trills and runs. He gives up, laughing again, and you cross your arms back over your chest. "And Dave Strider wins, as usual."

“Your name’s Dave? I’m John Egbert.” He sticks his hand out for you to shake, still grinning. Does he ever stop smiling?

You shake the proffered hand and lean on the piano in a more comfortable position. “To be honest,” you start hesitantly, “Your playing was pretty sweet.”

“Thank you!”

No, he does not stop smiling, not even when he’s blushing slightly.

“Have you played for long?” you ask, skimming your fingers over the black keys as you wait for a response.

John reaches under his seat for a sweatshirt and tugs it on while he replies, “Practically my whole life. My dad taught me.”

You can’t tell if it’s just the material over his head, but he seems kind of sad when he says it. You decide not to push; while he didn’t teach you how to play any instruments, your own guardian _did_ teach you to respect boundaries.

“Are you here with your family?” John asks after a short pause. His voice has a careful edge to it, like he’s tiptoeing around whatever’s making him upset.

“Nah.” You decide to tell him the truth, in an effort to get that broken puppy-dog look off his face. “My brother lives in Texas.”

John interrupts you. “How’d you get to Tennessee?”

“Long story.” You stretch your arms and yawn. Spending nights in shitty hotels hasn’t helped your insomnia and by now you’re exhausted, but hey, you have company. “CPS, ran away from home, relatives in New York, etc., etc.”

“CPS? How old are you?”

“Seventeen, but these PJs make me look at least twenty-one.”

“Whoa…” John gapes at you. “You’re an entire year younger than me! And I thought _I_ was crazy to trek all around the country.”

“Then where are you from?”

“Washington,” he responds, shoving his hands into his sweatshirt pocket.

You offer a fist, and he bumps it, grinning. “That’s pretty far for a kid to travel.”

“Kid? I’m older than you!”

“When’s your birthday?”

“April 13th,” he rattles off, raising his chin triumphantly.

You snort. “You’ve got a little more than a half of a year on me. I can still call you kid.”

He sticks out his tongue at you childishly, proving your point. The conversation stalls, but the silence isn’t awkward. You can hear the guy at the front desk typing and the muffled snores of someone on the second floor, and John’s steady breathing beside you is starting to make you sleepy.

“Can you play something fast?” you ask in an effort to stay awake.

John bites his lip, thinking, as he pushes up his sleeves. “Chopin’s Prelude Number Sixteen,” he announces, shoving you further down the bench with his hip. Then, without any warning, he launches into the piece.

Quickly, he runs his fingers up and down the keyboard, and it’s even more impressive up close. Before long, however, his arm is bumping into you as he reaches for the higher notes, and you jump up and out of the way. It’s a different kind of piece than before, more showy, and you can’t help but wonder if he did that on purpose. You watch as he gets lost in the music, and you find yourself getting lost, too, until you’re not in the lobby of a dingy hotel any more, you’re in a huge hall and John is onstage and-

“Would you shut the fuck up? It’s the middle of the night!”

Both of you jolt this time and turn simultaneously to the hallway entrance. A middle-aged woman stands with her feet apart and arms crossed. You open your mouth to snap back at her in your own Southern drawl – which is much more pleasing to the ear than hers, you have to say – when John beats you to it.

“I’m really sorry. I’ll stop now,” he promises, standing up and backing away from the piano. He bumps into you and almost apologizes again.

The woman scoffs at him, but she turns back anyway and clomps back up the stairs. John looks to you with a sheepish grin. “I really should get to sleep, too. Are you staying for more than a day?”

“Nope. I’m trying to get to New York as quickly as possible.”

He shifts on his feet. “Maybe I can come with you? At least for part of the way. I don’t really have anywhere to be until September, and besides, you’re not even legally an adult yet, and my-”

You cut him off with a small grin on your face. “Sure, Egbert. As long as you don’t wake me up at midnight every day.”

“Really?” John’s face splits into another huge grin. “Yes! Okay, I really do need to get some sleep, though, so I’ll see you in the morning!”

Practically buzzing with excitement, he throws his arms around you briefly before he’s off to his room. You snort to yourself in amusement and head up to your own room much more slowly. Now that there’s nothing to hold your attention, your body feels heavy with exhaustion, and you flop down onto your bed. You start to fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow, but in the back of your mind, you think can still hear the distant sounds of John at the piano.

**Author's Note:**

> The song John plays in the beginning is Beethoven Sonata no. 5, op. 10 no. 1. Listen here: http://www.listenonrepeat.com/watch/?v=BftJ2MVQLAk  
> Chopin's Prelude #16 in B flat minor is here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=N3xU3Pv-vIw


End file.
